


Nighthawks

by beetle



Category: Original Work
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Assassins & Hitmen, Awkward Crush, Awkward Flirting, Early Mornings, Edward Hopper, First Kiss, First Meeting, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Meet-Cute, Morally Ambiguous Character, Organized Crime, lgbtqia, meet-not-cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 01:56:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10479465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: They're just a couple of nighthawks, whose chances at redemption expire at sun-up.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Warnings: Implied character death. Maybe.

**IV**

Late the next evening, he rolled himself upright in his creaking Murphy bed, ignoring his hangover and the churn of his empty stomach. He automatically reached for the near-empty bottle of  _Jim Beam_  on his night table.

The angel on his shoulder began begging him  _not_  to give in to slow despair,  _yet again_ , by starting his “day” blind, stinking drunk. To _, for-God’s-sake_ , take up the great, difficult, and  _long_ -overdue work of redeeming himself. Of getting his life together  _right-the-heck-now_ —before mere existence got any more agonizing. Or before he landed in prison again.

 _It’s not too late, Peace,_  the angel said with hope as faded as a skein of old silk. It sounded like his  _abuelita_ , who’d believed in him to her dying day, more fool her.  _It’s_  never  _too late to make a better choice._

The angel  _was_  right. It’d never been  _wrong_ , even when it was misguided and naïve. So, he let go of the bottle of  _Beam_. . . .

Moments later he was chuckling at the angel’s weary dismay, while swigging from a full-ish bottle of  _Jack_ —it was, indeed,  _a_  better choice—relishing the way it burned away  _everything_ , even disappointed sighs.

He didn’t  _need_  no stinkin’  _devil_.  


**V**

 

His—unsavory—business resolved, near-abouts dawn he strolled into a diner not far from his place. He’d passed it a million times and never gone in. It’d always seemed a bit as if it’d be like walking into that Hopper painting.

 _At least the place ain’t called_  Phillies _, for Chrissakes,_  he thought, gritting his teeth and stepping into  _Myra’s All-American_ , shaking off the chill of mid-fall as he did.

He was one of two other people in the joint, including the counter-lady—tiny, frail-looking, could’ve been in her fifties, could’ve been in her eighties . . . hair dyed a weird orange-y red, face so smile-creased and wind-burned, it was tough to tell her age—and a young black guy bent over the computerized jukebox, picking songs and shaking his  _gape-worthy_  ass to Sly and the Family Stone.

The counter-lady, started singing along in a surprisingly brassy, mostly-on-key voice. She caught sight of him and waved him in with a big, welcoming smile. Disconcertingly, she reminded him of his  _abuelita,_  with those obvious dentures and that misplaced enthusiasm at seeing him.

Nonetheless, he opted for a seat at the counter, rather than a booth.  


**IV**

 

“Back in a flash, hon,” the counter-lady had said after pouring him a coffee, black, without being asked. Then the small woman stepped from behind the counter, singing once more, to join the young black guy at the jukebox.

He didn’t realize until his stomach was growling, his patience had worn thin, and  _Dance to the Music_  had begun its third go-round, that the jukebox was on the fritz.

Sighing, he found himself staring at the guy’s perfect ass. He’d stopped shaking it, as if he, too, had grown sick of the song.

Finally, the counter-lady huffed and unplugged the jukebox. The guy shrugged apologetically in the silence. He had a strikingly handsome profile.

“Sorry, Myra.” His voice was low, smooth, and pleasant. “It may be time to get a new jukebox.”

“Pah!” The little counter-lady moved briskly to her post, stopping in front her only other customer. “Nothing’s  _wrong_  with  _that_  one! It’s only twenty-six years old!”

“So’m  _I_ , and if  _I_  sang  _Dance to the Music_ , nonstop,  _my_  boss’d get rid of  _me_ , too!” The guy faced the counter and his fellow customer. Their eyes met and—

—one empty coffee-cup shattered on the floor.  


**III**

 

By the time Myra’d swept up the shards—she’d refused offers of help—he was staring dead-ahead once more and barely breathing.

Myra took the shards into the kitchen and he could _still_ feel that curious, affable gaze like sunlight.

“So,” the guy finally said as Myra reappeared, wearing  _insanely_  thick trifocals and wiping damp hands on her checkered apron.

Not glancing over at the curious young man for oh, so many reasons, he swallowed and nodded. “A needle pulling thread, my friend.”

“What can I get you, Jason, dear?” Myra asked, blinking now-huge eyes at the young guy, before glancing at the pile of stomach-acid and future cirrhosis said guy’d sat  _right next to_.

“The usual, to go, Myra. Please and thank you.” That smooth voice was relaxed.  _Unsuspecting_.

Myra nodded, her gaze swinging to Jason’s left again. “And you, Mr., er. . . ?”

Flushing—Jason was  _still staring_  at him, all bemusement, interest, and . . . _interest_ —he hunched his shoulders in his navy pea coat and managed to maintain eye-contact with Myra.

“Benitez. Poe Benitez,” he mumbled, then kicked himself. Not that it’d come to anything, but he hadn’t willingly given anyone his actual name since he was Jason’s age. “Um. I’ll have another coffee and, uh, I guess a piece of that cobbler. It’s not peach, is it?”

“Apple,” Jason—and Myra—said, smiling, from the sound.

He cleared his throat and nodded at Myra again. “Some of that, then. Thanks.”

“Okay, I’ll go wake Mike and have him get your order ready, Jason. Mr. Benitez—”

“Poe . . . please.”

“Right.  _Poe_. I’ll have your coffee and cobbler in a trice.”

When Myra moved toward the coffee-machine, he finally dared to glance at Jason. The other man was still looking at him with unstealthy interest, still smiling that dorky, adorable smile.

“What?” he demanded of Jason a bit harshly. The other man grinned and leaned in close.

“ _Nevermore_ ,” he quoted, as if imparting a secret, then tipped a stagey wink.

And _Poe_   _laughed_. For the first time in years, maybe. Since the last person who’d  _thought_  they’d surmised the origin of his first name. Moran or Costello, maybe? Or Les Rivers? Or . . . or even Captain Jones?

 _Doesn’t matter_ , he supposed. They were all dead.  _Long_  dead. And there was only  _one_  person to blame, really . . . and that person would soon be rotting in the Ninth Circle of Hell.

Momentary levity  _gone_ , Poe smiled, cold and dead like all his friends.  _Jason’s_  eyes widened and his breath seemed to catch in dismay.

“ _Peace-On-Earth_ ,” Poe gritted out softly and, as always, apropos of absolutely nothing.  


**II**

 

“I . . . I beg your pardon?”

Letting just a hint of bland irony touch his dark  _eyes_ , Poe faced forward in time to receive his coffee and cobbler, immediately digging into the latter as Myra hustled off into the kitchen.

“I wasn’t named for the writer, though you’re not the first to assume I was.  _Peace-On-Earth Javier Benitez_  is my full name. I was born on Christmas Eve and Mom just hadda go with the name. But no one’s called me that since—”  _since she died_  “—since I was nine. Everyone just calls me Poe.”

 _Or any one of a dozen aliases, Mr. Nelson Castellano. Or is it Orrin Esteban? Or Jonah Milian? What fake name are we wishing we’d used, tonight, hmm?_  the angel snarked, both bitter and panicked. Poe let a genuine smile cross his face for a moment, though Jason wouldn’t have seen it.

 _None of them. Though I don’t suppose it matters, now,_  Poe told his brooding, regret-filled conscience with resigned calm.  _Johann’s boys are probably tracking me down as I shovel down this cobbler. They’re gonna find me before the sun comes up. Probably Liam Leary, or that ex-Special Forces lieutenant with the pale eyes—Felicia-something. But by the time the birds start to sing, I’m gonna be sans fingertips and teeth, and plus an extra hole in my head._

Another snort from the angel.  _Yes, well, it’s not just_  you  _going to that great, rotisserie below-ground, now is it? You’ve got an_  obligation _, Peace, to—_

“’M not  _obligated_  to do a goddamned thing, Jimminy,” Poe muttered into his coffee.

“What was that?” Jason asked hesitantly. He was no longer leaning close to Poe, or even looking at him. As if some sort of survival instinct had kicked in and warned him against tempting fate or luck or  _whatever_  stepped between cute, clueless guys with nice asses who’d pissed off Johann DeWitt.

“You’re too friendly for your own good, Jason Richard Sullivan,” Poe noted with that same, deathly calm, like a graveyard at twilight. He scraped up the last of his cobbler crumbs and goo, and licked the fork clean. As last meals went, it was pretty satisfactory. And the coffee wasn’t bad, either.

“What—how—you don’t _know me!”_ Jason squawked as if equally offended  _and_  surprised that Poe had read him so well. He didn’t even notice that Poe inexplicably knew his last name.

“And yet, you’re not denying what I said.” Poe laughed, and dug out his wallet. Slapped a fifty on the counter. “That’s for us both. Breakfast is on me. Enjoy.”

Jason was gaping when Poe finally looked at him again, his round, dark eyes wide with confusion and puzzlement. Poe chuckled. “Have a good night,” he wished the doomed young man, even as the angel railed and raged throughout his psyche about injustices and unfairness.

 _Don’t tell_  me  _about injustice and unfairness_ , Poe thought at it mildly. Meanwhile, Jason was shaking his head in disbelief.

“Who  _are_  you?” he asked, searching Poe’s face as if looking for familiarity or something. Whatever he was looking for, if he didn’t find it in ten seconds, he’d  _never_  get another chance to.

“No one special. Just a . . . well-wisher.” Poe shrugged again and with a lazy salute, strode past a once-more-gaping Jason.

“Wait—what—where’re you  _going_?”

“Nowhere  _you_  wanna be, kid. Trust.” At the door, however, Poe looked back to find Jason staring at the fifty on the counter. “Unless you wanna join me in that alley across the street? Maybe get felt-up and receive the best blowjob of your life? I don’t got anywhere to be till the horizon lights up.”

Whipping around to face Poe, goggling, Jason shook his head  _no_ , still agape. Poe shrugged for a third time and crooked a regretful half-smile. Though the regret he felt was a token, as he hadn’t  _really_  expected a  _yes_.

“’S what I thought, hot-stuff. Take care.”

“Wait—how’d you know my name? Who _are_ you?”

“Someone who _really_ can’t be here once the sun rises.”

“What’re you, a  _vampire_?” There was a weirdly hysterical edge to Jason’s voice. A mirthless sort of amusement. Poe supposed, from Jason’s standpoint, it’d been a very _odd_ few minutes.

He winked and turned back to the door. “Sure. That’s as good a monster to be as any.  _Hasta luego_.”

Out in the chilly pre-dawn air, Poe glanced west, toward his shitty apartment . . . then started walking east, toward his last sunrise.  


**I**

Before first light kissed the sky, Poe sat in a bus shelter, still warm from the coffee and cobbler. In his hands was a picture printout.

Like so many attractive people, Jason Sullivan  _hadn’t_  photographed well. But more than well enough for Poe to recognize his . . .  _the_  current Mark.

His two-fingered salute to fucking Johann and his cronies.

His doom.

His _redemption_ , too. Or so the angel had claimed. It’d been M.I.A. since Poe left the diner.

It'd refused to accept what  _Poe_  already knew: Jason may not have died by  _Poe’s_  hand, but that didn’t mean he was  _safe_. Didn’t mean that, had he known he was on Johann’s kill-list, he could stop counting out the moments left to his life with an egg-timer.

Either Liam Leary or Felicia Corso or some other hired gun like Poe had—until _very_ recently—been, would get the kid. Put a bullet right between those pretty eyes.

Which Poe had been primed to do, mere hours ago, as Jason exited  _Front Matter Publishing_.

According to Johann’s intel, the Mark often stayed at work late, then still started his days there at a little after dawn: just another talented, overworked assistant copy-editor at a mammoth publishing house.

 _Well, not for much longer,_  Poe thought wryly, crumpling the printout and dropping it into the wind. He leaned back against the shelter wall and closed his eyes on the coming dawn.

It was mere minutes till someone sat next to him heavily. They’d made no attempt at stealth when approaching. And why should they? Poe wasn’t in any position to defend himself. He’d tossed his pistol into the river after his . . . crisis of conscience.

“Don’t draw it out, Liam,” he sighed tiredly. “Or is it Felicia?”

“Actually . . . it’s  _Jason_.”

Surprised for the third time in one night, Poe smiled, but didn’t open his eyes. “Wellllll. Hiya, sexy.”

“Johann DeWitt sent you after me, didn’t he?”

“Yup.”

“So, why’m I still alive?”

“Because I’m a sucker for a fine ass and pretty, dark eyes. And because the angel on my shoulder doesn’t want _your_ blood on my hands, too.”

Jason groaned. It, too, sounded tired. “He’ll kill you for sparing me.”

“It would’ve happened, eventually. Johann doesn’t much like me.”

“If this’s the kind of assassin you are, I can see why.”

“Heh. But don’t get used to bein’ alive, kiddo. Whoever he sent after  _me_  is probably gonna plug  _you_ , next.”

“I know.”

Now, Poe opened his eyes and turned his head. Jason was staring down at his hands, which were folded between his knees. He looked calm and resigned . . . and immeasurably sad.

“Why’s he want you dead, anyway?” Poe asked, curious, and trying to sense something about this guy that would equal the kind of enemy Johann would put out a kill-notice for. “What’s a guy like  _you_  doin’ tangled up with DeWitt, anyway?”

Jason snorted and glanced at Poe, his eyes shining and brimming.

“It’s a long story. Maybe  _too long_ , for . . . unless you  _want_  half a shitty, depressing story to be the last thing you hear?”

“Sure.” Poe smiled, reaching up to brush away tears as they rolled down Jason’s cheeks. “We got a little time left, I figure. And I can’t think of any way I’d rather spend it. Well . . . I  _can_ , but you already turned me down, so. . . .”

Jason chuckled, wry and incredulous, and more tears rolled down his cheeks. “Horn-dog.”

“Nah . . . I’d be happy with just a kiss, truth be told.”

“Is that so, Peace-On-Earth?”

Poe rolled his eyes. “Well, if you’re just gonna poke fun—” but he didn’t get to finish his sentence because Jason’s lips, full, soft, warm, and dark-sweet like black coffee with a ton of sugar, were pressing his own. Instantly, moaning, Poe surged up into the kiss, tasting Jason’s sweet lips and, with a demanding push of his tongue, exploring that warm, wet mouth.

“I was  _supposed_  to be telling you a story,” Jason gasped, finally breaking the kiss. Poe closed the brief distance between them again, slowly, holding Jason’s gaze with desperate intimacy.

“Plans change,” he whispered on Jason’s lips as the younger man’s eyes fluttered shut. He was shivering. Or maybe Poe was. “Believe me: I know.”

All around them, the first rays and fingers of roseate-gold radiance stroked across the city, lighting up the bus shelter until the very air seemed to glow.

And still, Poe and Jason kissed, stopping neither for life-stories nor oxygen, sunrise nor the soft, final click of a disengaged safety.

  
END

 

**Author's Note:**

> And come see me on [The Tumbles](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


End file.
